


Not You

by Punk_in_Docs



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Ceremony, F/M, Wedding, dream - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2335643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_in_Docs/pseuds/Punk_in_Docs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Nothing but a harmless Sherlock One Shot...) </p>
<p>For such an individual as Sherlock to be utterly awash with fuzzy nervousness, one needn’t tell you that it took a rather momentous event indeed to put the Sociopath at such a disposition.</p>
<p>An event such as his wedding day perhaps...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not You

Sherlock’s heart, stomach, legs, arms, brain, spleen, kidneys and every other internal organ he possessed, were positively fluttering with nerves.

The kind of nerves that, even when you are stood perfectly still, make your body feel as itinerant and as rootless as a herd of bees swarming around a hive. The kind that, even though you aren’t making a sound, to you, the air feels like it’s humming, crackling, fizzling and fit to burst with noise and tension. Emitting a low humming sound that broadcasts audible nervousness from every pore of your being.

And for such an individual as Sherlock to be utterly awash with fuzzy nervousness, one needn’t tell you that it took a rather momentous event indeed to put the Sociopath at such a disposition.

An event such as his wedding day perhaps...

He had spent most of the night twisting his long fingers in his bed sheets, denting the malleable fabric with his nervous hands. Just watching the dark ceiling and not finding any ebbs of sleep whatsoever to coax his eyelids shut so he could rest. He had counted every tick of the loud clock, and allowed his eyes to scan over the small sliver of darkness that gradually grew to light from in-between the curtains. And still not one whisper of tiredness gripped his body. He doesn’t even remember how he got showered, dressed, brushed his teeth, did his hair, or got to the church this morning. Because it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

All that matters, is that in approximately two minutes, the love of his life would be walking down that aisle, and after that, they would be married.

Married.

Husband and Wife. Him and Her. Bride and Groom. Mr and Missus.

Like an alerted predator he stood fidgeting in his tux. Clenching his eager and erratic hands into fists, and then releasing them again. He swallowed just before his best man by his side, gave him a not so discreet elbow in the ribs. Sherlock tore his eyes away from the door down the aisle and looked at John. Who gave a calm and warm smile in an attempt to soothe his friends frazzled and frayed nerves. Sherlock managed a small completely insincere twitch of a smile to flex his lips for one second, before his pallor snapped back to the pile of nerves that it was seemingly composed by this morning. His eyes then left his friend, and turned back down the aisle where a vision in white was softly gliding towards him.

He swallowed again. Finally this was it, the moment his entire being had been screaming with nerves from for the past 48 hours, that honestly felt like they had spanned a thousand slow and torturous years in exile for him.

All time seemed to slow down, like it was underwater, treading thickly and slowly through seconds and minutes. All he could see and think was her. In that lovely dress he knew only she could pick out of hundreds to want to marry him in. It was slim and form fitting, the material splayed forwards over her legs every time she took a step. His eyes travelled upwards, seeing the material grow tighter around her lovely figure from the A line skirt. He saw her lovely arms as they were bent inwards to clutch a bouquet of white and off white flowers that he knew took her ages to decide which ones she wanted. Before she changed her mind, and then changed it back again.

He smiled as she neared, her face hidden well under the large white veil that hid her face, he could see her hair was pulled up into a messily done style, and he could sense that a large smile was creasing her face too. Just like the one that was gracing his lips. Near splitting his face in two.

His mind then suddenly ticked over with a wave of nonsensical things. Like he needed to buy new socks, and visit his favourite Aunt more often. And buy a garlic crusher. And get around to sorting out his savings account…

But as she came to stand opposite him, all of that seemed to melt away, and envelope his nerves in calmness. She finally came to a halt se he could lift her veil, and as one of her bridesmaids took the flowers from her wonderful hands and into her own, Sherlock grasped the thin and sheer fabric of the veil, and slowly cast it back over her head so her could see her….

And when he did.

 

His entire body dropped.

 

He was looking into the face of a woman he had never seen before. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t Libby. This stranger instead, had deep brown eyes that were…nice… but they weren’t blue, and soft and like the almond shaped eyes his Libby had. And her lips were a different shade of pink, and her face was a different shape to Libby’s. Her eyebrows weren’t the soft arches he liked to trace under his fingers, and her hair wasn’t the dark auburn reddish bob he was used to tangling his hands in like Libby’s. This stranger had long dark brown waves of hair.

He paused, his hand staying hovering in mid-air over the brown waves of hair that weren’t Libby’s. And he watched as the pretty stranger’s face pinched in a small, subdued horrified frown.

“Sherlock? What is it?” came the soft drawl from in-between the lips of the girl who wasn’t Libby. He detected a soft pleasant Irish accent in her nice voice.

He turned around, twisting away from her and looking at John, who bore the same perturbed and gripped expressions. Sherlock turned back around surveying the church. Seeing rows upon rows of deep set and cadaverous faces of that of his friends and family staring back at him. He saw Mrs Hudson gape in confusion, he saw Molly looking shocked. He saw Mycroft’s haggard look of gauntness too.

That was when he found his voice.

“What’s going on?” he asked, to no one in particular, his mind fogging over with drowning confusion.

He was met with empty glances and no attempt at a verbal response being made. He saw perplexed heads turn to each other, whilst fascinating hats and suffocating formal collars were adjusted in uncomfortableness.

 

That was when he found what he was searching for. There. Right in the back row. Sat Libby. Who looked just as shocked as the rest of them. A frown pulling down her perfectly arched brows down over her piercing cerulean eyes, with that little wrinkle at the top of her nose that made itself present when she was frowning. But she was all there. All of her. All he wanted. The right eyebrows, the right length and coloured hair, the right shaped face and eyes and correct coloured lips. His Libby.

His hand dropped the veil of the stranger beside him and his legs quickly carried him down the aisle, and to the right woman. He watched as she stood to meet his running strides, and his movements met with waves of horrified gasps and harsh clipped shouts of his name. And then he slowed and stopped….

 

Because it appeared, she was now eating for two.

A large bump was very visible under the silken blue swell of her dress that did so much for pronouncing the other wonderful curves she had. She placed a hand over the swelling bump of her stomach as she stood. Before a large very masculine hand to her side reached out to steady her as she stood wobbly on heeled feet.

He looked to her right to see a… practically perfect man by her side. As he stood slowly to stabilise her, and shot a look of indifference to Sherlock. He was tall, possibly six foot two at the least, dressed in a pair of light grey trousers, a white shirt and a dark midnight blue velvet jacket. He looked pristine and dreamy, and everything Sherlock wasn’t. He had very bright eyes, that rested somewhere between cerulean blue and jade green, he also had short messily styled reddish hair, with perfectly clipped reddish stubble on his handsome, perfectly pronounced cheek boned face to match. His lips were fairly thin, but they still looked lush enough to make young girls dream about wanting to kiss them. And as he spoke to Libby, Sherlock saw that his jaw housed a perfectly and sparkling white line of teeth.

“Libs?”

His accent was perfectly intoned, in a firm and wonderful sounding voice. It was a voice that dripped elegance and poise, and had a background of a rich, Cambridge education. It absolutely scorched Sherlock to hear another man say his pet name for her.

The thing that nearly killed him though, was seeing that they both had silver wedding bands on their fingers.

He saw Libby’s as her right hand rested on her front at the bump. And he saw the Perfect man’s as his hand reached out to steady her on her feet.

Sherlock shook his head. A silent sob and a plea of ‘no’ falling from his cupid’s bow.

“Sherlock…. What are you doing?!” she breathed, ushering a gasp in a taken aback voice.

“You, and Me Libby. We… What happened to us?” he asked firmly.

He watched as her face contorted further into a frown, making the wrinkle above her nose become more accented. Lord help him he just wanted to kiss the creased skin away.

“What are you talking about Sherlock?” she asked, shaking her head, still looking shocked.

Sherlock felt fit to burst.

“We were in love, please tell me you remember that-“ as Sherlock had reached out to gently touch her wrist, he found a firm hand at his chest pushing him backwards as Libby squirmed away from Sherlock’s grip. The look of displeasure on her face tore his heart to shards.

“Hey! Let her go!” came the firmer, and angrier sounding voice from the perfectly perfect form of Libby’s nameless husband, and the father of their baby.

“Tom! Please…” Libby begged. Brushing him back a bit as tears started in her eyes. The towering form of her husband, Tom, coming in-between Sherlock and her.

Sherlock watched as the clipped expression of the man stared at Sherlock stonily, before allowing himself to be brushed aside slightly so she could reach Sherlock again. She sandwiched herself between an angry, tense husband, and a confused and heartbroken Sherlock.

“Sherlock. I don’t know if you’ve gone mad, or if your high or drunk or whatever! But we were never in love. I met Tom, and got married and now we’re having a baby, and you proposed to and are getting married to someone else…”

“No!” Sherlock spoke, shocked, as aggrieved relatives came tearing down the aisle, with shouts and cries of anger. Aswell as the stranger crying in her wedding dress at him, and John getting angry. He was suddenly crushed in crowds, unable to reach Libby as figures and blurry voices held him back. But he could still see her tear stained face as she stood, right hand on her pregnant stomach. He watched with his heart tearing in two like a piece of thin paper, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. As Tom’s hands came to slide around her and held her close, before leading her away from the crowds that Sherlock was trapped in. Sherlock cried out to her again and again, calling her name. But she didn’t even turn, didn’t even register him, she just carried on walking away.

He cried out one more time.

 

 

 

 

 

And then he woke up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I came too wearily and slowly. Not wanting to shift from my perfect and warm cosy spot in between the soft mattress and the thick duvet. It was still dark, and the digital display on my clock read 2:04am. I moaned a deep and unhappy sound, wondering why on earth I woke up. When I heard the soft whining sound come from downstairs that could only be from Sherlock’s violin. I frowned and smoothed my palm along the soft bed sheets, feeling his side was cold, disturbed an empty. He had been up for a while then. I groaned again, making an unhappy sound as I stood and stretched my body to life, pulling on my white towelling dressing gown to insulate me from the frigid cold air of the flat. I opened the bedroom door, trying not to swear as I stubbed my toe on the door, as my sleepy brain couldn’t shake itself from my slumbering stupor. I managed to get down the stairs unharmed, to see that the living room was dark, save for the dying glow of the fire that we had lit earlier to keep warm as we got back from the tube station and a tiring day.

I wandered slowly up to the doorway that looked into the room, and peeked in.

Sherlock was sprawled across his chair, his legs unfolded out in front of him like a resting spider. His forehead was cradled in the crook of his left arm, the elbow of which rested on the arm of his chair. His right hand was steeped over a half empty glass of whiskey. Which he was twirling in place on the opposite arm of his chair. He hadn’t counteracted my presence yet. But as he lifted his head to take a small sip and saw me lingering in the doorway with my arms folded over myself, his eyes locked with mine as he gulped down the remainder of the glass. And I was able to see the wet trails of tears that had tracked their way down his cheeks, spilling over his cheekbones and gliding over his jaw.

I tilted my head to one side and regarded him silently for a moment.

“What’s wrong.”

“Nothing-“

“Don’t you dare sit there and tell me nothing. Because clearly something is wrong, and I’d like to think you credit me with more intelligence than that.”

I said softly. He carried on steeping the empty tumbler in his hand, twisting it in place on the chair. Not making eyes contact with me.

I walked into the room, and took the empty glass, placing it down on his desk, and crouching by his side. The last thing I wanted to do was force him to talk when he didn’t want too, but on the other hand I didn’t want him to hermit away, and introvert himself. I’d seen him do that plenty of times and it didn’t get him anywhere, in actual fact, he made himself worse off for doing it.

“I had a-…” he sighed, tilting his head away from me, and looking at the fire that was no more than dim amber ashes now. Not caring to finish his words.

“Epiphany? Nightmare? Stroke? Aneurism...” I asked softly, seeing him close his eyes, his right arm crossing his body, knuckles resting on his lips, before he opened his eyes and looked straight at me, so I could see the fresh tears brewing in his eyes.

“I had.. a dream. Nightmare really. But it felt so real, it was utterly—“ he started. Drifting off.

“Felt so real that you thought it was?” I asked, he nodded.

“I gather you remember what it was about?”

He nodded. Looking again at the dying embers in the fireplace.

“I married someone else, and you were married to someone else too, and pregnant and happy without me and… god this is so pathetic… I’m crying over the figments of my own head!” he snapped. Getting angrier as the sentence went on.

“Sherlock, it’s ok to be scared. No one is going to rib you for it…”

He gave me a cold hard look.

“Sociopath’s don’t cry at stupid, and near imaginary dreams, Libby.” He said firmly.

“Well. I’m glad you did cry.” I started

He looked at me, utterly confused. “Why?”

“Because it shows you care. That’s what you always told me, isn’t it? ‘Don’t forget that I can care...’ what you would always say to me. And you mean that. Because you care enough to get upset over loosing something you care about in a dream, something that isn’t even real. And even then, you still care…” I said softly.

He swallowed and looked down at his lap.

“You don’t think I’m stupid then?” he grumbled so low I almost missed it.

“No. I really don’t.” I smiled placing my hand over his. “You can diffuse bombs, and tell what someone does for a living from fifty paces. You can bake a cake, speak Russian, and you can save a life. You can do it all. I don’t think stupid constitutes itself under any of those things…” I explained.

There was a moment of silence, before Sherlock sat up and brought me onto his lap, nuzzling his damp face into my neck, and stroking his left hand down my leg, as he made sure my ass was tucked into the curve of his hip next to the arm of the chair.

“You’re terribly good for a wounded ego.” He whispered into my skin. I laughed.

“Sherlock, Darling, A seven nation army, missiles and an Atom bomb couldn’t do any damage to your ego.” I spoke softly, my fingers fidgeting with his hair. He let a small chuckle vibrate into my neck. Swerving his head up to look at me, resting his forehead against mine.

“Thank you.” He sighed. I smiled, before using my sleeve to gently dry off his damp cheeks. His eyes blinking at me and watching me all the while as I did.

“Come on, come back to bed. Don’t forget we have everyone over tomorrow for drinks...” I said. Mouthing a small kiss onto his cheek.

I didn’t turn to face him as I scrambled off his lap, but I felt his hand tuck under the sash of my gown, and halt me where I stood, before turning me back around, and placing both his hands on my hips, I laughed before I met his eyes, that were looking up at me dominatingly. The way he tugged me back to chair unexpectedly did make me stumble against the chair as I collided into it. I’m sure that knocked me down a peg or two on the sexy scale. But the look in his eyes told me he didn’t care and I had time to redeem myself.

His grip on my hips increased, and I was pulled forwards, his legs nudged my knees apart, and I was knelt with my legs either side of him, my hands resting on the back of his neck as he made sure that my knees were well and truly wedged into the chair as I sat straddling him, he still looked up at me with highly dilated eyes. Panther reclining on a leather chair. I swallowed. He let his hands skim up over my waist, before tugging the chest of my gown open fiercely. Letting the bow I had tied at the front burst open, and his palm slid down over the black silk of my nightie. Which his right arm proceeded to inch further up my thigh. Tickling my skin. Whilst his other hand reached around to my ass and tugged me closer, shifting my crotch over his in a way that could make me feel his …growing excitement harden, in a skittish swoosh of breath, all air left my lungs, as I bit back a vocal moan. Gripping his neck to make sure I didn’t fall off the face of the earth.

“I think us in this position is becoming a bit of a... Fetish for you…” I breathed softly. As his lips tracked wet open mouthed kisses all down my front, wetting the fabric between the valleys of my breasts. His actions making said area strain and swell with the breaths he was pulling from me.

His eyes flicked up to mine again.

“Mmmmnnnnn.” He moaned. Taking his mouth off me for a second. “It’s because I can do this…” he purred, clawing his hand into my ass, and grinding up into me again in a way that made me bite my lip, throw my head back, and breathe out a loud moan. “And hear you do that…” he smirked.

“Uh, god your evil!” I huffed, to which he winked. And smirked wider.

“Much more fun that way…” he said, as his fingers of his left hand found the tender sweet spot on the inside of my thigh, making me squirm in pleasure.

“Besides, as my homecoming gift to you, and as part of our routine of years of makeup sex that you threatened me with, and now that John has moved out, I want to christen every single inch, doorway and room of this flat…” he growled.

“Christen-?!- OH.” I moaned, as his fingers travelled higher.

He smirked once more.

“And, my darling. I would like to start with this chair.”


End file.
